Read Online The Gooseberry Fool by James Mcclure - Free Book Online
Authors: James Mcclure
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this, the better. Did you take any photos, Matthew?”
“Some snaps, but I have not got a lens that can reach a long way.”
“Then go back this afternoon, now they’ve gone.”
“My editor thinks it is more important that I do a write-up on the resettlement area.”
“The dumping ground? Isn’t that a bit risky?”
Zondi, in his role as the case-hardened chief reporter for a Zulu weekly, shrugged modestly.
“Maybe you can lend me the collar of a priest; the government does not stop you going in.”
The nuns giggled appreciatively, even the greedy one whose mouth was full, and passed the beaker of soured milk down to their guest. Then they pressed on him another sardine. It astonished Zondi that they were all so recklessly trusting—he had not offered any proof of his assumed identity. But then they were probably accustomed to sympathetic strangers who, out themselves. Both sides of the coin had their virtues.
“You say, Holy Brother, that these people today were not everybody from Robert’s Halt?”
“Just Brother will do, Matthew.… No, they weren’t. Half went yesterday.”
“Like thirty?”
“Forty-five, to be precise. Look for yourself; I’ve the Father’s list here.”
Brother Kerrigan reached around for a school tablet and gave it to Zondi, who looked down the column of names and found Shabalala in the middle. The word seemed to rise in relief.
“How long was it that the government gave the people to make ready?”
One of the nuns tut-tutted and the others sighed.
“Well naturally there’s been talk about this Black Spot for some time. Father Lofthouse did what he could. Went round to the farmers, wrote letters, saw them at BAD. Even petitioned the Archbishop. But nothing could be done.”
Brother Kerrigan, true to his calling, swiveled again in his chair to produce the appropriate textual references—a bulky bundle of exchanges with the department of Bantu Administration and Development. Zondi hardly glanced at them.
“But how long, Brother?”
“It happened out of the blue, finally. An official from BAD came by three days ago, told the people the talking was over, and the police and lorries arrived yesterday morning.”
Time factors are always of vital importance in detective work—only Zondi did not much care for the simple explanation that now suggested itself. He forced it aside. He stood up.
“Many thanks,” he said, “but it is time that I go on to this place. It is the one near Blitzkop, is that not so?”
“Heavens, no, Matthew. Much further on. Called Jabula, believe it or not.”
“Kilometers, please?”
“At least a hundred and fifty.”
“Hau! This I was not told! What is the time?”
“Two. But you’ll still go, I hope?”
Zondi wound his watch.
“Maybe. First I must speak with my boss on the telephone.”
“You could do that from here.”
Zondi gave him a look as old-fashioned as the walnut instrument with its crank handle in the corner, and everyone laughed nervously. It was a widespread belief that private telephones, even on mission stations, had long since lost their innocence.
“Then we won’t keep you—you’d have had to go back to the main road anyway to reach Jabula. There’s a whites-only kiosk at the first service station, but the old chap there isn’t too fussy; he’s a Pole.”
Zondi took his leave of the nuns on the veranda and, avoiding the storm puddles, walked in silence with Brother Kerrigan to the car. It balked like a mule but finally got going.
“Difficult times, Matthew,” said Brother Kerrigan, stepping away from the driver’s window with a wave.
Zondi waved back, but was through the gate before replying, “Too damn right, boss!”
And then he drove very close to the limit along the dangerously muddy road, skidding and drifting, and not caring very much if he came unstuck. It was as though he was tempting fate into providing him with an honorable way out of the mess he had made; not that he had oblivion
“Some snaps, but I have not got a lens that can reach a long way.”
“Then go back this afternoon, now they’ve gone.”
“My editor thinks it is more important that I do a write-up on the resettlement area.”
“The dumping ground? Isn’t that a bit risky?”
Zondi, in his role as the case-hardened chief reporter for a Zulu weekly, shrugged modestly.
“Maybe you can lend me the collar of a priest; the government does not stop you going in.”
The nuns giggled appreciatively, even the greedy one whose mouth was full, and passed the beaker of soured milk down to their guest. Then they pressed on him another sardine. It astonished Zondi that they were all so recklessly trusting—he had not offered any proof of his assumed identity. But then they were probably accustomed to sympathetic strangers who, out themselves. Both sides of the coin had their virtues.
“You say, Holy Brother, that these people today were not everybody from Robert’s Halt?”
“Just Brother will do, Matthew.… No, they weren’t. Half went yesterday.”
“Like thirty?”
“Forty-five, to be precise. Look for yourself; I’ve the Father’s list here.”
Brother Kerrigan reached around for a school tablet and gave it to Zondi, who looked down the column of names and found Shabalala in the middle. The word seemed to rise in relief.
“How long was it that the government gave the people to make ready?”
One of the nuns tut-tutted and the others sighed.
“Well naturally there’s been talk about this Black Spot for some time. Father Lofthouse did what he could. Went round to the farmers, wrote letters, saw them at BAD. Even petitioned the Archbishop. But nothing could be done.”
Brother Kerrigan, true to his calling, swiveled again in his chair to produce the appropriate textual references—a bulky bundle of exchanges with the department of Bantu Administration and Development. Zondi hardly glanced at them.
“But how long, Brother?”
“It happened out of the blue, finally. An official from BAD came by three days ago, told the people the talking was over, and the police and lorries arrived yesterday morning.”
Time factors are always of vital importance in detective work—only Zondi did not much care for the simple explanation that now suggested itself. He forced it aside. He stood up.
“Many thanks,” he said, “but it is time that I go on to this place. It is the one near Blitzkop, is that not so?”
“Heavens, no, Matthew. Much further on. Called Jabula, believe it or not.”
“Kilometers, please?”
“At least a hundred and fifty.”
“Hau! This I was not told! What is the time?”
“Two. But you’ll still go, I hope?”
Zondi wound his watch.
“Maybe. First I must speak with my boss on the telephone.”
“You could do that from here.”
Zondi gave him a look as old-fashioned as the walnut instrument with its crank handle in the corner, and everyone laughed nervously. It was a widespread belief that private telephones, even on mission stations, had long since lost their innocence.
“Then we won’t keep you—you’d have had to go back to the main road anyway to reach Jabula. There’s a whites-only kiosk at the first service station, but the old chap there isn’t too fussy; he’s a Pole.”
Zondi took his leave of the nuns on the veranda and, avoiding the storm puddles, walked in silence with Brother Kerrigan to the car. It balked like a mule but finally got going.
“Difficult times, Matthew,” said Brother Kerrigan, stepping away from the driver’s window with a wave.
Zondi waved back, but was through the gate before replying, “Too damn right, boss!”
And then he drove very close to the limit along the dangerously muddy road, skidding and drifting, and not caring very much if he came unstuck. It was as though he was tempting fate into providing him with an honorable way out of the mess he had made; not that he had oblivion
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